


coffee & vanilla bean & gunsmoke

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: College, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, also drinks way too many energy drinks, reader is mentally unstable.... like me.... coincidence? whO Can sAysldkfjdkj, reader's in college, readers havin a ruFF time, take thAT motherfuckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 20:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: You have a rough day.Natasha's there.





	coffee & vanilla bean & gunsmoke

**Author's Note:**

> is this blatant self-projection? ... mayhaps
> 
> is my life currently falling apart before my very eyes? mOST definitely!!11!
> 
> am i handling it well? nOTREALLYSDLFKJFLHSDF;
> 
> ahem
> 
> so this is a thing i wrote over the past couple days. didn't exactly edit it, 'cause, y'know, the whole 'my life is falling apart' sitch we got goin on over here so like
> 
> super super sorry for any mistakes im planning to come back n proofread when i get time

At this point, you’re wondering why you bothered with college to begin with. 

You know you need it; you know that, once you calm down, you’ll never dare to do the things you’re threatening right now: to pick up and leave, to get yourself expelled, to scream and cry and claw at your own skin until they hospitalize you all over again for being a danger to yourself and (indirectly) those you love. 

Sometimes, it doesn’t quite feel like you’re getting anywhere—sometimes, it just feels like you’re repeating the same washed-out cycle over and over again: relative balance, destructive spiral, rock bottom (which, interestingly enough, seems to get lower and lower every goddamned time you come back around), a fleeting urge to better yourself followed promptly by relative balance, a powerfully destructive spiral, an inexplicably worse rock bottom than before, and then so on and so forth. 

When things get bad (take right now, for example), you can’t help but wonder whether or not it’s all worth it. 

(Honestly, most of the time, you’re still not quite sure that it is.)

Still, you’re not going to leave this life; you _can’t_ leave, because you made a billion promises to a select handful of people that you wouldn’t, and maybe you’re a hopeless moron who lives the majority of your life well within the morally grey end of the spectrum, but those promises matter to you a hell of a lot more than little else ever has and fuck it all, but you intend to keep them. 

So, fine—maybe you’re not going to leave. 

That doesn’t mean you can’t get bad, though. That doesn’t mean you can’t hurt and hurt and _hurt_ until frustrated tears leak from your eyes and you've bitten your bleeding fingernails raw and you can’t help wanting to let it consume you like you’ve been fighting since before you knew the omnipotent magnitude of what fighting this disease, this _illness_, even meant to begin with. 

And, God, does it hurt.

It hurts when it’s 3:48pm and you have class across campus at 4:00pm and you’ve been late the past three times so you know you need to leave now if you want even the barest chance of getting there just in time, but you’re alone in your room, crying and sobbing and gasping for breath because it’s all too much and nothing is right and the walls feel like they’re closing in and God, but you miss home. 

You grab your things at 3:49pm, and you’re out the door by 3:50pm, because maybe you’re sad and angry and overwhelmed but you’re terrified you’ll crumble even further the minute you let yourself slip, and that palpable fear is more than enough to have you running across campus like a maniac to catch your BIO 234 course in Highland Hall like nothing else matters (and, right then, it really does feel like nothing else quite does), tear tracks drying upon your flushed cheeks. 

You sit through class feeling strange, unfulfilled, not quite _there_… but, you sit through it just the same, and when the clock strikes 5:15pm and you have absolutely nothing to show for today’s lecture beyond a completely blank document displayed upon your screen, you snap your laptop shut and shove it in your bag and speed-walk out as fast as you can because, maybe you haven’t done well today, but you’ve done what’s required of you, and for now, that has to be enough. 

(You’re hard-pressed to believe something so pitifully lenient.)

— — 

You cry a little more when you get back to your dorm, and you’re still crying when you stumble down the hall to your wing's communal bathroom for a quick shower—a tall brunette girl with a fishtail braid in her hair asks you if you’re alright along the way; you think her name is Claire, and that she once said she came here from Colorado, and from what little you can remember Claire from Colorado is really quite nice, but you can’t focus right now for the life of you, because all you can see is white and static and _sadness_ and damn it all, but you think that catching up with Colorado Claire will have to wait until later (no matter how nice she is). 

You dress in something of a daze: short tight black spandex and an oversized off-the-shoulder NASA T-shirt (essentially what you wear every night to bed), your long hair piled haphazardly atop your head in a messy bun (you hadn’t bothered to wet your hair in the shower—you knew you didn’t have the energy to wash it), along with fluffy green-polka-dotted purple socks and pink Adidas slides on either foot. 

You smell like coconuts (courtesy of the body wash Natasha had given you a couple weeks back as a gift) and cigarette smoke (your shortcut behind the library went right past one of two cordoned-off smoking areas on campus—a necessary evil, for all intents and purposes); not bad, but not ideal, either. 

You’re pretty sure you shaved yesterday morning (though, really, who can say), your laptop is on 21% but you can’t find your charger, you have a Psych exam tomorrow morning that you haven’t so much as studied for so you snatch a Monster from your fridge (your last one, you note with a muttered curse) on your way out because it’s 6:02pm and Natasha said she’d send a car and you _know_ she’ll tell you again and again that money isn’t an issue but that still doesn’t change the fact that the driver _will_ charge more if you make him wait and _dammit_, but you don’t want to fuck this day up any more than you already have. 

People look at you like you’re crazy as you race down five consecutive flights of stairs in fluffy socks and pale pink slides, Monster energy drink clutched tightly to your chest, charcoal-grey backpack sagging treacherously low off your right shoulder—really, though, you don’t much care, and when you burst out the building’s double doors to see a sleek black Rolls Royce idling at the curb (the middle-aged driver man sitting up front with a sour look on his sallow features), you regret that you didn’t just fuck it all and sprint the whole way rather than jogging, gawking bystanders be damned.

You yank open the door and collapse upon the ridiculously expensive leather upholstery with a suppressed huff—the driver man just heaves a quiet sigh (the partition between the two of you is rolled up only halfway, just like it always is), waiting dutifully for you to shut the door behind you before he’s shifting gears and pulling away from the curb without a single word. 

You scrabble and claw at the Monster can in your hands for a while—your nails are way too short and they hurt far too much to be of any help, and you bite back a sigh but snatch up your student ID just the same, sliding the flimsy plastic beneath the tab and maneuvering it to pop the can open with a loud _hiss!_

(You think you see Driver Man roll his eyes at that, but you can’t be sure.)

Your foot is tapping like crazy and you’re not sure if the generous gulps you’re downing of the Monster energy drink is helping or hurting, but God, you have so much to do and you’re not sure how in the _world_ you’re going to manage to do it all and your brain won’t stop telling you the most awful things that only serve to make you feel that much worse about everything and you don’t know where you’re going right now or why you’re in such a nice car because you don’t have the money to afford such a nice car but Natasha does and—

_Natasha_.

_Natasha’s_ why you’re here—you’re gonna see her soon, you remind yourself. 

(You’ll admit that that realization makes it all just a little bit softer around the edges. 

_You’re going to see Natasha soon_.)

— — 

Driver Man drops you off at the curb, stoic and grumpy as ever, and proceeds to drive off without a word as soon as you’ve shut the door behind you. 

(You think maybe you should draw him a picture… or maybe writing a ’Thank you’ note would be more age-appropriate.

… Not that that would be likely to make him hate you any less.)

Your energy drink sloshes in the can (there’s about half of it left) as you punch in the 9-digit code (it changed every week, but this time you’d scribbled it in navy-blue Sharpie upon your wrist despite how Natasha had wrinkled your nose at you for doing so) upon the sleek silver keypad hidden behind the porch light beside the matte-black-painted carbon-fibre-reinforced titanium door, yawning quietly to yourself as the machinery whirrs and the formidable door swings open to grant you entrance. 

You enter the modest (but expensively-styled) flat, slides slapping loudly against the marble floor as you make your way towards the kitchen (where Natasha will likely be), inhaling the comforting smell of coffee grinds and vanilla bean and the barest hint of gunpowder (for all the domesticity she’d adopted over the years, Natasha was still very much in the business of guns and drug lords and saving the world)—it’s comforting, you think as you round the corner and see a familiar redheaded figure at the counter chopping carrots with expeditious efficiency. _Safe_.

“Hey,” Natasha drawls, low and throaty as she looks up to fix you with a searching green-eyed stare—it might’ve unnerved you earlier on in your relationship, and scared you shitless before you were even in a relationship, but, now, you know that there’s no reason to shrivel under it; now, you’re more than content to bare yourself to her, flaws and all. 

(Even if you’re terrified, now more than ever, that all you’ve become is a surplus of unequivocal mistakes, an overwhelming profusion of flaws.

Because, through it all, you made a promise above everything; you promised you wouldn’t hide, and you intend to keep it, no matter how intently that devastating voice within you screams that she’ll run once you do, that she’ll take one look at the ghastly mess you’ve become and decide it isn’t worth it, that it never has been.

You suppose there’s a comfort in putting it all out there, anyhow, regardless of how abhorrent you’re sure it all is—that there’s something to be said for showing someone _everything_ and knowing that, whatever their decision, there isn’t anything more for them to love or hate, whatever their reprisal.

You’ll admit it’s a rather hollow comfort, as comforts go.)

“Can I have a hug?” you ask shyly in lieu of response, absentmindedly placing your half-finished can of Monster atop the granite counter and shuffling towards your girlfriend, not bothering to hide the downright exhaustion from showing across your forlorn features. 

Natasha, caring and perfect as ever, instantly sets down the knife and opens her arms upon your murmured request, whispering “Of course,” and enveloping you in strong arms that grip you tightly against her chest as you hum in contentment. “Bad day?”

You give another noncommittal hum in reply to that, nuzzling into the crook of her neck and inhaling her intoxicating scent, coffee and vanilla bean and smoke; she just tightens her arms around you, surrounding you in the most poignant kind of warmth you’d been longing after since what feels to you like forever. 

(It’s perfect—like _home_.)

“Use your words, darling,” she murmurs against the crown of your skull, silky smooth yet underlaid with the most delicate kind of steel that urges you to bend to its will—to _her_ will; you shiver involuntarily in her arms at that, consciously relaxing your muscles and melting even further against her, practically _purring_ with satisfaction when she places a gentle kiss atop your head as if _rewarding_ you for being so compliant, so willing and _submissive_. 

“Sad,” you mumble out as coherently as you can manage whilst that familiar delectable haze begins to settle over your thoughts, one that only seemed to descend when Natasha was there, surrounding you in warmth and affection and a sense of such overpowering _safety_ you always prayed would never leave. “Need you, Tash.”

She pulls away then and you whine reflexively even as her arms remain solid and warm around you, those intent green eyes shifting to focus upon yours, curiosity and something like _danger_ glinting in her gaze. (It sets something warm and familiar settling lower and lower in your gut, something that positively _yearns_ to be appeased before it has the chance to swallow you whole.) 

“Ask me nicely, pretty girl,” she husks lowly, her warm breath ghosting across your lips; you shudder in her arms, entranced by the sight of Natasha’s verdant irises darkening just inches from yours.

“I—I need you, Natasha, p-_please_, I—“

Her grip tightens around your waist, and something like a growl escapes her, successfully halting you mid-plea. “Need me to _what_?”

You whimper, entirely at a loss, knees weak, your body practically _liquefying_ in her arms. “I—“

“Need to hear you say it, gorgeous,” she drawls, quirking a single brow as she looks down on you, her pupils blown wide with desire. “Tell me what you need.”

“Wan-Want you to touch me, use me, _fuck_ m—“

She stops you then with a bruising kiss, open-mouthed and wet and altogether _filthy_, swallowing your whimpered moan in all-encompassing cavernous warmth and drawing you even further into that potent haze of euphoric inattention with the basest of erotic sensations—you arch your back even further against her, wordlessly communicating your willing intent as you allow yourself to be wholly devoured, like putty beneath her capable fingers.

Her hands travel down your bare thighs on either side, the feverish kiss lowering in place as her hands come down to curl around the backs of your knees, and you know exactly what’s she’s looking for: you bend your legs slightly before hopping up into her arms, wholeheartedly trusting her to catch you… and she does, guiding your legs to tighten around her torso and easily supporting your weight while groping your ass firmly with either hand, smirking against your lips as you whine into her mouth; God, you’re growing desperate, and damn her, but she knows it, too. 

You pull away briefly from her lips to whine, “Tash,” the single syllable muffled slightly as she lunges forward to engage you in another heated kiss, thereby successfully derailing your train of thought (likely for the next hour or so).

You kiss like that for what feels like forever (but you don’t mind, obviously—you never do), all tongue and teeth and _heat_; it's more than enough to leave you utterly breathless and squirming in her strong embrace, wordlessly begging for more, _desperate_ for more. 

You kiss for a while longer until you’re so wet that it _hurts_, and when Natasha drops you down to your feet and pulls away for a second or two to tug at the hem of your oversized tee, you oblige her while eyeing your changed surroundings with scarcely concealed wonder, because when exactly had the two of you gotten to the _bedroom_ ? 

You aren’t given all that much time to ponder that particular realization, though, because a second later Natasha’s pushing you to sit upon the edge of the bed and tugging insistently at the taut elastic waistband of your spandex while sinking readily to her knees before you, and really, you can’t help that literally all your thoughts fly promptly out the window as a direct result, because, _Holy shit_. 

You lift your hips to help her slide them off, fighting the instinctive urge to clench your thighs together in some futile attempt to hide your wetness as she throws your spandex somewhere off to the side, the evidence of your arousal suddenly bared to her in full; you don’t, because you know that Natasha doesn’t like it when you hide, and fuck, but you can’t stand to disappoint anyone else today with your chronic inability to function, especially not if you can help it. 

“Gorgeous,” Natasha murmurs more to herself than to you before placing a warm kiss upon your inner thigh and smirking against your flesh when a full-bodied shiver racks your body in response.

The heady scent of your arousal hangs heavy in the air, filling your nostrils with that tangy, potent aroma that is so innately, unmistakably _you_—you think it’s becoming increasingly possible you’ll downright explode with sheer and unmitigated _wanting_, and you’re sure that you feel your soul quite literally leaving your body when Natasha puts her mouth on you for the first time, her tongue tracing your slippery folds in teasing strokes, her breath hot and wholly _devastating_ upon your core… God, it’s like heaven and hell all in one, and you never want it to end. 

“T-Tash, I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp and a violent buck of your hips as Natasha’s flattens her tongue against your clit, effecting powerful bolts of single-minded pleasure to ripple throughout each of your senses; you need more—you’re so close already but _God_, you need more, and it’s as if Natasha somehow knows this, can _sense_ it (—with Natasha, you never could be sure). 

Any other night she’d draw this out—play with you for hours on end, teasing you with the slowest strokes of her tongue, bringing you to the edge again and again until you’re begging for reprieve, for the release she’d been denying you all night. God, how you’d sob and beg and _plead_ with her to let you cum (not that it ever did you much good—Natasha’s will had always been rather unbreakable). 

Still, tonight is different, and the both of you know it. 

Tonight, Natasha pins your waist to the bed with a single forearm and plunges two fingers deftly into you without ceremony, the abrupt sensation of it all more than enough to rip a truly desperate wail from your throat—she begins fucking her digits in and out of you in earnest, then, curling her fingers to hit that one spot you could never seem to reach yourself (the one that has stars exploding behind your eyelids), her tongue still sliding skillfully around your hypersensitive clit all the while. 

Lewd, wet noises fill your ears with every rough stroke as you approach your climax, dewy sweat forming upon your brow, your muscles spasming beneath your skin even as Natasha’s strong grip ensures you can’t move any more than she likes.

You’re babbling gibberish now, half-formed pleas supplementing each gasped moan that escapes your throat—you don’t even know what you’re begging for, exactly, but hell if that doesn’t stop you from doing it anyhow. 

Another especially deep thrust successfully halts any and all stray thoughts from your mind—there’s nothing for you to do but simply _be_ as Natasha’s skilled fingers curl just so in that devastating ‘Come hither’ motion, full red lips suctioning your clit so _fucking_ deliciously— 

You come with a scream, every muscle tensed, wetness gushing from your cunt as you clench and spasm around Natasha’s fingers—you think you black out for a minute (or longer), because suddenly you’re gone, you’re gone you’re _gone_, flung off the precipice and directly into an overwhelming extravagance of euphoric bliss, white-noise static growing louder and louder in your ears until your vision whites out and all you can think, all you can see… is something like divinity (or, as close as you’ll ever get to something like that, anyhow). 

The return to reality is gradual—like falling leaves on a cool autumn breeze. 

It’s a while before it feels concrete, before you know without a doubt that it’s real: a still fully-clothed Natasha supporting your limp naked form in a bridal carry, her arms strong and solid beneath your knees and shoulders, the smell of her (vanilla bean and the sweetest spice you’ve ever inhaled along with the barest trace of gun smoke) enveloping you in a sort of comfort you’re hard pressed to find anywhere else (presuming it’d ever be possible to accomplish such a feat—you don’t think that it is). 

And, truly, it’s perfect. 

It’s _home_. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> thots?
> 
> also here’s the link to my


End file.
